


Wildest Dreams

by Time_Sequence



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, torture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Time_Sequence/pseuds/Time_Sequence
Summary: Sometimes, Celebrimbor haunts Mairon.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Wildest Dreams

Tyelpë is here again.

He stands across from him, watching from sharp silver eyes, strong arms folded across his chest.

His hair is down and that is how Mairon knows this isn’t real. It was always tied back for his work in the forge, practicality superseding any of Mairon’s personal preferences. He used to admonish him for leaving his own hair untied.

“I have full control of my corporeal form, Celebrimbor. I will not light my hair on fire.”

“Yes, but you’re setting a bad example for the younger apprentices.”

His hair wasn’t down until the end, and then it was matted, caked in grime. Mairon wants to reach out and curl a strand of it around his finger, but he has neither finger nor form anymore. He had never expected the lack of a body to come as a loss to him, but now the urge for touch – for physical sensation – is overwhelming.

_It will come back soon_ , he tells himself. _Just as soon as the ring is recovered. Not long now…_

“Mairon,” Tyelpë says, and he doesn’t know what he feels. If he had a stomach, butterflies might burst in him, but he doesn’t. He is so empty. “Why can’t you let it go?”

This is a dream, of course. It may be waking, but it is more real than his own mutilated spirit’s teetering attempts at clinging to the physical plane. He feels himself flickering, blinking and pulsing in and out of existence, and pushes his mind to the ring. He feels the halfling that wears it, his heartbeat, the coursing of blood through his veins. He is growing ever closer. Soon, his self will be returned; he will be whole again.

“Mairon, stop it.”

There’s the rub, the tell. Tyelpë never called him Mairon. He was Annatar, crowned in golden raiment, then Sauron, terrible to behold – and then he was nothing at all, when Tyelpë’s voice no longer rounded out words, even to hiss or spit them at him. He lets himself pretend now, though. He could have been Mairon with Tyelpë, if he hadn’t designed plans of his own. He would have forgiven.

“You aren’t here,” he says. It is barely a whisper, more of a rasp.

Tyelpë raises an eyebrow. “Did you hallucinate me to argue about my existence? Look at yourself.” Something flashes in his eyes and Mairon can’t place it. “There’s hardly anything left.”

Mairon moves closer to him, like a moth to a flame. “It won’t be like this for long – the ring – ”

He wants to touch Tyelpë’s face, but he knows he would force him away.

“You lost yourself the day you made that thing. You put too much of yourself into it.”

“It was my greatest creation. You never could see that. It is the very best of me.”

“And now what is left?”

His spirit stagnates. He reaches back out to the ring. It is a lifeline. He clutches at its weak enticing force with all his might. He has so little might these days. That will change, he tells himself.

“When the ring is returned,” he says, ignoring Tyelpë’s commentary, “I can bring you back.” His spirit crests around Tyelpë like waves, but they cannot find purchase.

_Because he is not here_ , the back of his mind tells him. He ignores that, too.

“I know how to do it. They called me the Necromancer in Dol Guldur.”

“You always did deal in death,” Tyelpë says and Mairon reels back, stung.

“You will see,” Mairon says, more to himself now. “I will find the halfling, the ring will be mine, I will have _you_ – ” This time he does reach out to touch him. He cannot help but remember the way Tyelpë’s flesh felt under his fingertips – warm, coursing with life and breath and blood. His pulse would flare when he touched him, and it had made Mairon’s mind riot with possibilities. He wants that thrill of tangibility now. Or, if not that, the roiling sensation of two spirits crashing together.

Tyelpë isn’t there, though. Mairon reaches but he is alone.

All that is left is the distant hum of the ring song.


End file.
